Highlander Reborn
by TobyWong
Summary: Connor MacLeod is back to life, but the obvious question is: HOW? Rewrite of a very short thing I wrote... lifetimes ago.
1. Chapter 1

- I -

He opened his eyes and eyed around. A wooden rooftop that wouldn't go anywhere greeted him. He rubbed his eyes as he stood up. He glanced around, trying to get his mind in focus. The grog from the night before had bequeathed an irritating hangover to him. Bloody beer! He should drink less next time.

He went to the bathroom and instinctively buried his face in hands, after having turned on the water and filling them with the liquid. He stared at his reflection in the not-so clean mirror. He blinked and flashes of a recurrent nightmare assaulted him.

He was in a large field. He had long hair and wore tartan and kilt, as the old Highlanders. He wielded a large claymore. Around him, people battled, and either killed or died. The stench of blood surrounded him. Then a devil-ridden stallion appeared before him, and from it descended a giant in a golden armour. He tried to attack but this stranger simply stabbed him below the heart.

He sensed the illusory pain vividly. Every morning he had those dreams he felt an acute sensation aching in that zone. He couldn't understand the source of those nightmares. In fact, he couldn't understand anything. He didn't know who he was.

He put on a warm shirt, a pair of worn-out jeans and some boots and left his room. He headed for a wooden staircase and descended into the main floor of the MacIntyre's Hostel. It was a small place. Seven or eight square-shaped tables greeted the visitor. Under the stairs there was a bar, which also served as reception for checking-in.

"Morning, Mac."

Jeffrey MacIntyre greeted him. His wife and him had found him lying naked amid the green of the Highlands of Scotland. He was covered in dust and unconscious. The wake-up would bring an unpleasant surprise: he was amnesiac. He had no memories whatsoever. The MacIntyres offered him lodging in exchange of work. He agreed. Since he had no name, they named him Mac. A nickname that could be used for half the inhabitants of Scotland.

"Good morning, Mr. MacIntyre."

His reply was kind. The old man was near seventy. The excess of alcohol had left its mark in his oversized stomach and haggard factions. The wife, Jane, was almost the same age, but she retained a slender shape, though her face was very wrinkled.

"I told you to call me Jeff." The man scolded softly. "Hangover?"

"Some. Nothing work can't shake off."

"That's the attitude." He had the van keys in his hands. "Jane got stuck in the city with all the supplies. Think you'll be able to handle the place?"

Mac looked stunned. After only two months, the MacIntyres entrusted him the place. He knew all the chores, but...

"Sure."

"I knew I could count on you, lad."

Jeff left before Mac could notice. He guessed that the first thing to be done was the washing-up. He headed for the kitchen as he heard the engine of the van roaring. He turned on the water and grabbed the first of at least a dozen dishes that were piled beside the sink. He heard a melody stemming from the electronic device that announced the entrance of a visitor. He turned, still holding the ceramic piece in his hand.

_Damn_! He collapsed on the floor as the dish crashed to pieces. His head spun in and out of a pit of dolour. He felt his guts squirming as he tried to endure the unfathomable pain. He choked, trying to intake the air that his lungs claimed desperately.

Slowly, he grasped the washbasin and helped himself up, wondering what had been the reason of that seizure. Maybe he suffered some sort of epilepsy. He treaded slowly towards the diner, prone to greet the visitor.

"Good morning, sir."

A large, stocky African-American man sat in the table nearest to the door. He wore a long leather coat over a collar-neck red sweater and a pair of denim jeans. He scowled at his host and his lips formed a mocking grin. Mac was used to the contempt of some guests and disregarded it.

"Would you like some breakfast?" The man didn't reply. He just kept staring. "Sir?"

"Something on a plate." He muttered finally, his voice a cavernous, if shrill one.

Mac smiled, trying his best to be nice. He turned heading back to the kitchen, hoping for the answer to the question he was about to utter. "Such as?"

"Your head, for instance."

"That's very funny, sir." His eyes were intent on returning to the kitchen, hoping this lunatic would leave upon the lack of attendance.

But some noise made him turn. The man had kicked the chair away and pushed the table away, turning it upside-down. He tore at his coat and revealed something that froze Mac's blood... a sword!?

"I'm Stephen Briggs. Whoever you are, I challenge you!"

Challenge? What was this man talking about? Could he have some sort of delusion, believing himself in the Middle Ages? Then Mac remembered his dreams and an ice cold sweat ran through his back.

"I... I don't understand..." he uttered.

Briggs seemed not to heed. He shoved another table aside as he approached Mac. He gained speed as he began to swing the blade around. He was almost at him when he lashed violently. Mac felt his body freeze and suddenly, he was behind the man. Somehow, fuelled by pure instinct, he had ducked and avoided the blow. He didn't stop to hesitate about it. He ran from this mad stranger and out of the hostel.

The isolated green of the Highlands greeted him. The hostel was the only dwelling in at least a mile. Unless he could run that far, he had only gained a little time.

He heard Briggs coming up behind him. He tripped and fell.

"Stop and fight, coward!"

"Fight?" he stammered, rising to his feet despite he felt his legs numbing.

"Yeah." Briggs growled. He hoisted his sword. "Where's your sword?"

His sword?!?! Was he supposed to have a sword? What was going on? It was insane. A man that challenged him to a duel. It had to be a nightmare, one even worst than the one of the hulk in the golden armour.

"I... don't have... one."

"Then you die!"

Briggs rushed towards him, wielding his sword as the maniac he was. Mac felt his muscles stiffening and his bladder giving in. He wanted to run, but he was too scared to do so. Suddenly, he heard the words.

"You've already lost."

It was... his voice?! He barely realised he had muttered them when he lunged forward and stole the sword from Briggs', his body making a full twist as he inflicted a deep cut on Briggs' neck... so deep it severed his head. Mac dropped the sword, aghast at his own doing. He tremulously raised his left hand to his face and touched it, to then stare at his fingers. There was blood on them. He felt his stomach struggling to release its content. Then thunder cracked and a lightning hit him...


	2. Chapter 2

- II -

Glasgow was noisy. Really noisy. Though rationalising a bit, everything seemed noisy in comparison with the peace and quietness of the Highlands. Mac treaded evenly past the streets. It was his first time in the city and he felt he had to be careful. He had no ID whatsoever. Any detainment would lead to a murdered man at the door of a hostel whose owners had helped a man who didn't know who he was.

He felt a pinch of guilt. He had taken all the money he could find from the kind MacIntyres, and escaped, leaving behind a headless corpse and a mess inside. It was no payment for them. But he couldn't stay there anymore. They wouldn't understand.

Just as he still didn't understand. He had expertly outmanoeuvred the man, snatching the sword and beheading him with a single blow. The mere memory of it made him sick. Then lightning bolts had struck him and he had felt something so strange but at the same time so familiar overpowering him.

He crossed a street and halted. He glanced at both sides. He saw a hotel sign, two streets away. He moved towards there, trying his best not to draw attention. Though such preventive measures were unnecessary. The lane was devoid of people.

"Give me your money, arsehole!"

The deep voice startled him, and he turned. A dishevelled man bearing a beard of at least a week, dirty rags and a sports cap was a few steps away, threatening him with a Swiss-army knife. He grinned, completely unaware of why.

"I have none..." He stammered.

The thug thrust at him. Mac arched his waist backwards, avoiding the blade. He quickly glanced around and found a large piece of pipe. After avoiding a clumsy chop, he got hold of it.

"You want to try to keep your money, arsehole?!"

The man seemed under the influence of some drug, or at least excessive amounts of alcohol. Mac didn't hesitate about it. Here he was coming again. He lifted the pipe up and let it fall sharply over the thug's shoulder. The noise of cracking bones unnerved him. The thug fell over him and then he felt the pain.

An acute, cold feeling invaded his side. As the thief fell, he realised the knife was stuck below his left rib. He trembled, the pain numbing him. He traipsed toward the corner, hoping to be able to cry for help. But he did the former only. He fell unconscious before he could do the latter.

---

He opened his eyes slowly, feeling drowsy. The sudden exposure to light was harsh to him and he shut his lids instantly. Once adjusted, he dared see again. It was a neat white room. To his left, there was an elder lady with dyed red hair and ample stomach and hips grinning at him.

"He's awake." She said, glancing at his right, where a bald man in light blue clothes was entering through a door.

"Mr. Nash... are you feeling OK?"

"I... I... guess."

"Good. It wasn't a deadly wound, but you lost a lot of blood."

"What...?"

"What what, sir?"

Slowly, Mac's mind began to rationalise. He had heard the doctor calling him a name. Nash? Was that his name? How could this man know?

"My name..."

"You hit your head hard against the floor. You may be suffering temporary amnesia."

"Temporary...?" It wasn't temporary. But he wouldn't waste time explaining. "What's my name?"

"You're Russell Edwin Nash. Born in Pittsburgh in the United States in 1945."

Russell Nash? The name bore a slight reminiscence. But he couldn't place it. He was American? But he didn't sound like one. God, so many things out of place.

"How did you... find ... out?"

The doctor grinned. "Your fingerprints. They match the records. Though allow me to say you're in a very good shape for being 62."

Mac grinned. "I do my best." He was 62?

"That thug will spend some time behind bars. After he leaves here, of course. You made a bloody mess out of his shoulder."

He remembered the assault. He tried to recall his very movements then. He couldn't. He had acted upon instinct yet with knowledge. He reached for his side. He found a bandage. He stirred, feeling a little pain.

"Keep it for a week. Then return here, or visit another hospital, to have the stitches removed." The woman, obviously a nurse, said kindly.

"The police is here..." Mac/Nash felt short of breath. "They'll take you to your residence."

"Residence?"

"Aye. You have a house in Glasgow. The best of lucks."

The doctor left and two constables walked in, nodding at the nurse and at Nash. They helped the patient up. His clothes were next to him. Everybody left so that he could dress up, which he did. He opened the door and the nurse pointed him to a wheelchair. He rode it and one of the officers pushed the chair towards the exit.

He felt renewed upon having a name. He grinned a little. Would he have a wife? Children? They might help him find his identity and gone memories. The hospital was a fuss of people coming and going.

His eyes posed on a man, a practitioner probably. He was going nowhere. He had been checking a prescription when he had noticed Nash, and had stared in rapt amazement before he realised he was being too obvious and returned to his chore. Would he know Nash? Russell would never know. He was leaving the hospital now, and entering the car...


	3. Chapter 3

- III -

_Two weeks later_.

If Glasgow was noisy, New York City was the mother of noise. Nash kept a nervous fast pace as he moved past pedestrians even more hurried than he was. He had estate in New York too. That was one of many things he had learnt at Glasgow.

He had had a wife. Brenda. A picture of them together had triggered some flashes of her, one of which was particularly clear: her, in a turquoise shirt, made-up and wearing earrings, sipping wine.

He had had another wife and an adopted son. Alexandra and John. For what he could gather, John had perished due to a congenital defect. She was still alive, a permanent resident of Glasgow General Hospital, comatose ever since a bullet had nestled in her skull during a bank robbery.

As he turned the street, he checked an old tax receipt he had uncovered in Glasgow. 1182 Hudson Street. It had to be this one. He glanced up to learn what sort of property he owned, hoped to grasp a little renewed notion of his true self. He froze.

It was a destroyed place. A three-storey building, its windows and door tapped with wood. Had it been some heritage that he never wanted to touch? As he walked towards its front, each step full of uncertainty, a vivid flash of an explosion struck him. Concomitantly, he felt that annoying sensation again. Only this time, it didn't affect his motion. He guessed its implications. But he had to continue.

So the place had blown up? He couldn't know for certain. He checked the blockage of the door. He pulled it back and forth till he could make an opening big enough to sneak in through. Amid thin shafts of light, he moved across what probably had been the front room of the shop. If the receipt was right, he had owned an antique shop.

There was an elevator, and next to it, a door that led to a passage. That passage led to another door, which in turn led to what seemed like a kitchen. He glanced around at the remnants of what had been his house, memories randomly blinking in his head. He instinctively headed toward an empty bookshelf. He stuck a hand underneath it and his fingers touched something. He pulled upward and revealed two closed doors.

He opened them and the sight made him collapse on the floor. Years and years of existence ran through his head, as if his lifetime had made a secret arrangement to punish him for his amnesia. He regained composure and stepped inside.

His eyes posed over different elements, all of which bore apparently no connection between them. He grasped a photograph. It was a real old one. It depicted a handsome man in an uniform, standing firm and proud at the camera. Nash found himself grinning, knowing he had been acquainted with that person. His father perhaps?

A repetitive knock made him turn. He glanced and noticed a slim, tall man standing at the entrance, not far from him. He wore a long mackintosh and jeans, as well as an irritating smile. He was neatly shaved, and his short curled blond hair was cropped up.

"Rummaging through the dead's property?" he queried mockingly.

"Dead?"

"Youp." The man had a British accent. He went past Nash and grabbed something that caught the other's attention. It was a broadsword, one that bore an engraving that highlighted its Italian making... Italian? How did he know that? "This place used to belong to Connor MacLeod."

Connor MacLeod? The name struck him in the face. It did sound familiar. MacLeod... it was a Scottish name. He had read some and heard more of the folk of Scotland, and there were some MacLeods mentioned there.

"MacLeod?"

"You must be new into this, lad." The man left the sword and picked up a burnt-out book. "Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, the Highlander. One of the greatest warriors that ever received the Quickening. However, the reputation of his clansman overshadowed him."

"Clansman?"

"Aye. Duncan MacLeod. Same clan. All the more popular among us, yet I doubt if as skilled. Connor forced him to take his head. What a waste. Connor defeated the Kurgan, you know?"

Connor had been beheaded? He wondered the implications of the "this" this stranger had mentioned before. And what was the Quickening? However, the mention of the Kurgan reminded him the dream of the Highlands. The evil golden warrior that stabbed him. He knew he could make sense of it... but he needed more.

"And this..."

"Enough chatter, lad." The man cut him off brusquely. He opened his mackintosh and produced something that didn't shock Nash: a sword. It was a pirate cutlass. The stranger grabbed the Italian sword and tossed it to him. "I'm here for your head, not to make socials."

The head taking again. He guessed that if his head fell, that man would go through the lightning bolts. But to what avail? What was there at the end? He heard an ominous voice, almost in a whisper, in a strange accent stemming from a funny voice, echoing in his head. _You will fight, Highlander. Not because you want to kill, not because you want the Quickening. But merely, because you must if you want to live. We must fight until only one remains. In the end, there can be only one._

Nash grabbed the sword and instinctively pointed ahead at a larger space behind the stranger. He squinted and nodded. They walked into an open space, large enough for them. The man adopted a samurai stance, standing in profile with the sword clung to one of his sides. Nash simply held his weapon with both hands.

"Wow! It seems more of us were around lately."

The man pointed at a headless corpse, all dressed in black, lying on its chest, and at a head, lying on a side nearby. Nash grimaced in horror. It was barely more than a skull. Then the stranger bolted forward. The cutlass clanged off the Italian sword. Nash felt it vibrating in his hands and staggered back. The other lashed again and cut Nash's arm. Russell leapt aside, changing the sword to his wounded limb while using the good one to hold the gash.

"One of us has to die now, lad."

The words had a psychical echo in Nash. He stared at the blood in his hand and when he looked up at the other, he noticed a change in the expression. Uncertainty replaced the nonchalance and a trickle of fear perspired down the stranger's forehead.

He stood up and held his weapon expertly above his head. He remembered. Every second more and more returned to him. He coolly waved at the other, motioning him to attack. His opponent hesitated, but the defiant grin posed on Nash's lips eventually threw him off the edge and he went forward awkwardly, probably attempting to chop his head off.

Nash arched his arms down and forward, almost as if he were batting. His blade carved open the stomach of the other, who fell on his knees, spitting blood. Nash placed his sword against the neck of the vanquished man.

"Wait." The man choked. "I'm Alexander Bane. Who... are you?"

Nash replied. Bane's eyes widened in horror and he began to shake his head in stubborn denial and insane laughter. Not for long though. Nash took his head with a single blow, and the head flew away, where it joined the other head.

He dropped the sword, this time ready for what was coming. He remembered now. Everything. His first death in the Highlands of Scotland, fatally wounded by the Kurgan. Meeting his mentor Juan Sanchez Villalobos Ramirez, and the painful knowledge of his death. The death of her mother and her bonny Heather. Finding another troubled Highlander born into immortality... everything.

But something did not fit. The Quickening was embraced by Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. He was not supposed to be there. As Bane had very well put it, he had given in his head to his clansman. Many questions to be answered. But first of all, he had to find Duncan...


	4. Chapter 4

- IV -

_Three days later._

Inside the New York City Cemetery, Connor MacLeod treaded uneasily past graves and mausoleums, searching coldly for a specific tombstone. The wind blew relentlessly, and he hid his hands inside the warm coat he wore. His eyes spotted it and he approached slowly, grasping every second to gain strength. He sighed in pain when he read it.

DUNCAN MACLEOD

"Duncan..." he whispered to himself, his voice leaking emotion. How had it happened? Had he failed in defeating Jacob Kell? Had Connor's sacrifice been worthless? Would Kell return after him, now that he was alive? He clenched his fists in rage.

After moments of blankly staring at the grave, he felt his head spin. An immortal. Would it be Kell? He tore at his coat and kept his hand on the Italian-made sword. If it was Kell, he would not stop because it was holy ground. Jacob had not cared about it. And Connor would not care either.

Slowly, a shape appeared. It was a slender, attractive woman that looked in her early twenties. She had long black straight hair and wore jeans, high-heeled shoes and a long-sleeved tee shirt. She seemed to halt at a nearby grave but then she joined Connor. She had crystal blue eyes, which examined him.

"This can't be." She mumbled. "You're Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." How could this stranger know him? He voiced his thoughts politely. "I've heard descriptions of you... and this is your clansman's grave."

"You knew him?"

"Briefly." She glanced away. "Everybody said you were dead."

"I was."

"So you returned somehow." She did not seem sceptical. Her gaze was strong if tarnished by pain. "I'm Lisa Dini. Like you, I'm visiting a loss." She pointed at the grave where she had halted before.

"Your husband?"

She nodded. "Jimi..." her voice became pained. "We were strolling in a park. God knows what happened. Four men accosted us. I was knocked down. When I awoke he..." she stopped.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes were intent on the grave of her husband. She did not look at him. Not only the grave was more important for her, she did not want to show her weakness. Connor understood.

"The strangest of all... is that we never sensed them." Her words came out harshly.

"You mean they were..."

"Mortals." She suddenly faced him, her eyes a mask of sorrow and plea. "Tell me how you did it. I'll do anything to have him back."

"I... I don't know how I returned. I'm different though." He saw her eyes welling up and it pained him. "It seems that wounds don't go away... until I receive the Quickening."

"You're mortal then?"

"In a way, I am."

"That would explain why I did not sense you."

"You didn't—?"

"No, I didn't. I just guessed by your looks and your being there."

How had Bane known he was an immortal then?

"I did sense you."

Lisa shook her head. "It enables you to stay out of the Game. I envy you. You're a mortal than can receive the Quickening. The best of both worlds."

He did not find it amusing. But he realised she was not attempting a joke. She needed the conversation, anything, however stupid it was, to distract her from the distress she was undergoing.

"How did you know Duncan?"

"It was in Italy... we slept together. It seemed an endless period of sleep. "

He contained a chuckle, knowing that Duncan always had all the fun and all the good women. She did not find it embarrassing to discuss such affair near her husband's grave.

Then he revisited her words. An endless period of sleep. The Watchers! Could they be behind the murder of Jimi Dini? He slowly began to glance around. To his left, in the distance, he made out a large, bulky bald man that was observing them through some binoculars.

"Lisa... " he spoke solemnly. "Carefully, glance to your right and notice the bald man there."

Her head cocked rightward and when it returned she looked pale.

"Do you happen to know who he is?"

"No..." she gasped.

"But..."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I could almost swear that he was one of the bastards that killed Jimi..."

_[NOTE: Lisa and Jimi Dini are characters from the film "Nirvana"._


	5. Chapter 5

- V -

_Seacouver._

Two weeks later, Connor was in a bar. He held a glass of Glenmorangie and he was staring reminiscently at the liquid therein. In a bar like that, he had met Brenda. He had walked in by chance, and only now was he realising. He glanced to his left, where she had been standing. He had asked if she went often to the Madison Square Garden, and if she could walk her home.

Brenda. The prototype of woman with attitude, if a little too confident. He still remembered her face when he had brought her a gift that turned out to be her own book. Her death had been a lethal blow for Connor, the beginning of the end for him.

A man walked in slowly and took seat next to him. The barman greeted him warmly. Connor overheard that the man owned a couple of bars in the States and abroad. The barman had been in Paris, at the man's very bar. He talked cheerfully of it, embarrassing the other.

"Excited fellow, huh?" he asked Connor when the barman was gone. The voice was raspy.

"I guess." Connor tried to be polite. He was not in the mood for conversation.

"Do you have a name?"

"Russell Nash."

A hand appeared before Connor, in offering. "Really?"

"Really."

"Odd. There's a dead baby in Pittsburgh called like that."

Connor turned abruptly to face the man. It was a bearded man. He had white long hair falling to his shoulders. He was dressed in a brown shirt and a pair of jeans. Who the hell was this man? Connor noticed a stick parked next to the newcomer's left leg and thought he could guess.

"Who are you?" he still asked.

"My name is Joe Dawson."

Connor's eyes charged with rage. He knew the name. Dawson. Duncan's friend, who also happened to have been his Watcher. What was he up to? A confession?

"What do you want?" he grunted.

"You're alive. I need an explanation."

"I don't have one."

"MacLeod, come on!"

"Come on?" Connor eyed icily at Joe. "I trusted once one of you. She told me that I could rest in Sanctuary, that the place would never be found. Turns out Jacob Kell found it. And now I'll find him and make him pay for Duncan's death!!"

Joe stared estranged at Connor, who had gone out of himself. He sipped some whisky. Gladly, the barman was not around.

"Duncan defeated Kell." He commented casually.

"It can't be. No one could have defeated him then!"

"I know. But the truth is... I don't know how it happened."

"That's nonsense. You're his Watcher."

"That doesn't make you an immortal's 24-hour shadow. We also sleep, eat and shit!" Dawson growled. Connor's anger subsided. He downed his glass.

"Tell me what you do know."

"We'd met in the bar the day of his... " Joe halted, his eyes watering, his face fighting emotion. He drank more. "He seemed in a good mood. I'd heard from a mutual friend and wanted to share the news. He left round midday. That's all."

"Kate? Where was she?"

"She couldn't ha--."

"She was with Kell. Where is she?" Connor cut him off.

"Kate and Duncan never sorted out their differences truly. Arguments became quarrels, which in time became fights, and in time..."

"He killed her?"

"Yes."

"Then you can't help me further."

"At least answer me how you returned."

He glanced at Dawson. Joe had probably been very frank to him. But he was a Watcher. And Connor would not trust one again. A small bright red spot danced on Dawson's forehead before fixing between the eyes. Connor leapt over Joe and landed over him on the floor. Inches away, two bullets pierced the wooden floor.

"Stay here!"

Connor stormed out and glanced at the rooftops. No one was there. A close roar drew his attention to his right. A motorbike. Its rider controlled it with his right hand and held a machine gun in the left. He aimed at Connor, who jumped out of the fire's way and fell badly on his left arm. At his feet, the floor rattled as the bullets wounded it.

"Are you OK, MacLeod?"

Connor gawked at Joe. The bike was away now. He sorely got up and helped the handicapped man. Joe wiped his clothes and sighed.

"You almost get it." He eyed the holes on the floor from the sniper's bullets. "They'd have made a hole in your head."

"They weren't for me." Connor replied sardonically. "They wanted you out."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Actually... Joe, was it?" Connor chuckled. "You could be of help after all. Could you do me a favour?"


	6. Chapter 6

- VI -

"Duncan retired. I'm sort of taking over his business."

Inside the antique shop once property of Duncan MacLeod, Connor explained to a lady in her late forties the reasons for the change of owner. She thanked him and left, folding a receipt for a 200-year-old sword to be delivered at her residence. Connor wondered if that woman and Duncan had been... Impossible. Duncan was with Tessa Noel at that time, and he would have never ever cheated her. And had Duncan done so, Connor would have spanked his ass all the way from Seacouver to Ushuaia.

The dusk was near. Connor sat on a chair meant for visitors and stared at an ancient Indian spear. He remembered the death of Duncan's bethrothed and her family at the hands of Kern. Duncan had fallen on the edge of darkness then. Duncan had hunted Kern for a long time, before he eventually retreated to holy ground. Just like Connor had done. Though had Connor's choice been wiser?

An old clock echoed, announcing it was closing time. Connor chuckled. A sword and three silver goblets were a good reaping for the first day. What would Duncan have said? He'd say it was more than sufficient. And one way or another, a mockery game would begin. As it had always happened.

A bell rang. Connor moved towards the back of the residence, where Tessa, Duncan's love, used to make her sculptures. Dawson was at the door. Connor let him in, greeting him with a sober grin.

"You know what?" Joe commented. "It's the first time I walk in here."

"There are first times for everything, no matter how old you get." Connor locked the door and pointed him towards the front of the residence.

"Really?"

"Yes."

Joe took a seat in the same chair Connor had been sitting before. In the past, he had taken furtive gawks from the window. The place remained unchanged. He could almost expect Duncan to climb down the stairs any second. Damned him if he didn't miss Duncan.

"I found Lisa." Joe grunted, once Connor took a nearby seat.

"You gave her my message?"

"No."

"Why?"

"She was beheaded."

"Who did it?" Connor asked coldly.

"I don't know. But..." Joe squirmed in his seat. "There's something else." Connor listened intently. "Duncan's body was found only two streets from the bar. It was the same day I last saw him. The streets were empty."

"Meaning...?"

"I stayed until 4 AM that day. Taxes." Joe grinned. "And the streets were too fucking empty."

"I still don't undestand."

"I didn't hear it, MacLeod. No thunder, no screams, no nothing."

"The Quickening. glanced away in thought. He was rationalising an endless number of possibilities. And most of them led to a simple conclussion. Still, something was missing. A simple question which surely had an intrincate and seemingly illogical answer. "Thanks for coming."

Joe did not seem surprised by Connor's sudden dismissal. He was accompanied to the back door and farewelled there with a smirk. He had something of Duncan in him, he thought as he got back in his car. No wonder they were clansmen. Covered by the night, he turned the ignition on, wondering if he had forgotten something...

---

Another unexplained death. First Jimi Dini, then his wife. And now the revelation of Duncan's strange death. The Watchers had to be involved. Connor recalled his entrance into Sanctuary. A place where he would be able to get away, and rest for eternity. Locked away in a cave and administered drugs to keep him in an eternal sleep. Unfortunately, his mind still worked. And centuries of pain and regrets came back to him during it while he was impaired from doing anything to distract from such thoughts. The bastards did not tell him that.

Sitting in the workshop, admiring a sculpture that had evidently been shaped by Tessa, Connor heard a rattle at the door. He glanced. The beard and the grey hair were there. He grinned first. But after stepping forward, he halted, his fists clenching in tension.

Though also bearded, the man there bore a dark scowl that taught Connor that things might be a little more complicated than he had first thought. The man there was familiar to him. He had killed a friend of him. He was evil and ruthless. But above all, the fact that made Connor shiver was that, just like himself, that man had been beheaded!

The man started forcing and pushing the door. At the third push, it gave. He walked in. Connor ran back to the living room, where he picked up the Italian sword he had killed Alexander Bane with. The unwanted visitor halted nearby, chuckling in frantic delight.

"MacLeod!"

So he was looking for him when he was supposed to be dead. It was no coincidence. Even stranger. Just like the fact that only now he felt his head spinning upon the presence of his visitor.

"Slan Quince. How come? You also got a ticket for a trip back?"

Quince grinned. "No, MacLeod. Just our friends Tellex and Sanderson."

"Who?"

Quince suddenly jerked his head around, as if he suffered a troublesome headache. His eyes struggled with themselves and his mouth quivered. "N... No. I forget they mean nothing to you." He stammered.

"Who are they, Slan?"

Quince seemed to shake off the pain angrily and aimed an enormous broadsword at Connor. He lunged forward. Connor leapt away as Slan ran by him awkwardly. Quince went forward again, and Connor deflected off his chop masterly. Slan retreated, seemingly confused.

Connor studied him. He remembered his battle with Slan Quince in 1992, in Soldier's Bridge. There was some skill in his moves, and a hidden stiletto in the hilt of the blade. But this time, Quince seemed a clumsy man new into immortality, with no expertise whatsoever.

Connor made his blade cut the air and went ahead. Slan bluntly lashed at him, crudely and without focus. Connor dodged him easily and made a deep cut across his side. Slan growled in pain as he collapsed on his knees, his voice gurgled by the out-flowing blood.

"Who are they, Slan?"

This time, Connor asked impetously and angrily. Slan guffawed raucously, summoning more blood to his mouth. He choked and spat.

"Ask them.. if you can find them..." he stammered and grinned. "Ciao baby!" he said with thrill.

Connor lashed forward, slicing Slan's head with a single blow. Slan Quince was a maniac. He had always been. Even in his last moment of life. But the man he had faced now seemed a faulty version. He had said two names, names that he would have to track and find to learn the answer to his rebirth.

Connor waited for the Quickening to come... but it never came.


	7. Chapter 7

- VII –

Joe returned a couple of days later. Not alone. A slender, pretty long haired woman, named Amy Thomas, in her mid thirties eased her way in, shaking Connor's hand gently. Connor questioned Dawson with his eyes.

"My daughter, MacLeod." He said simply as he closed the back door and moved slowly towards the living room.

"Daughter?"

"Yeah." Amy replied coolly as she glanced around. "Long tale. I thought you were on business."

Connor waved them both at the sofa and produced Slan Quince's broadsword. "I had visits."

Amy studied the blade. Joe glanced at Connor, not understanding.

"MacLeod, I brought Amy in because she..."

"Don't worry about it, Joe." Connor replied to the late apology. "She's in already."

"Slan Quince?" Amy suddenly blurted.

"Yeah. How do you know?"

"I had to do some sort of thesis a few years ago. Pick a dead immortal and prove my knowledge of him. Guess who I picked." She smiled amicably.

"I'm flattered." Connor gallantly grinned back. Then he went serious. "Quince mentioned two names. Tellex and Sanderson. Mean anything to you?

Amy glanced at Joe, who began to fiddle with his stick. He eyed back and nodded.

"Peter Tellex was... In the early 90's, a group of Watchers began to hunt and slay immortals. Their leader was James Horton. Tellex belonged to that group. He hit the sack after a whole mess that nearly boiled down to war between immortals and us."

"And the other one?"

"Thomas Sanderson was in the group too. He had a doctorate in physics. A big brain indeed. He resigned one day. Personal reasons, he claimed... You're saying they're involved?"

"I spotted Lisa Dini's watcher when I met her at Duncan's grave. She said it could be one of the guys that killed her husband."

"That is impossible."

"I noticed his bald head from quite a distance, Joe." Connor countered acidly.

"Twice impossible, then. Lisa Dini's watcher was a woman. And even now, a dead woman."

"What?"

"I don't know, Highlander!" Joe sputtered as Amy squeezed a handkerchief, her eyes suddenly watering. Connor thought he understood everything now. There was more than mere trust in the involvement of Amy. It was personal. A family business.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Connor said kindly.

Amy stood up and went towards the entrance window. Connor only heard her breaking down into tears but didn't turn. He saw Joe's face mutate into a mask of pain.

"We're leaving. I shouldn't have brought..."

"I only hope it's not about revenge for her." Connor mused. "Revenge doesn't accomplish anything." He stood up. "You should take a break, Joe. You seem stirred. Go to the fight at the boxing stadium."

"Tickets are sold out."

"I can give you mine."

"And what about her? She hates boxing." He grinned. "It's best if we just go for dinner."

Connor nodded and minutes later, the visitors left. Connor watched them walk slowly away, her arm folded in his. Just like Rachel and him in the 1970's. Going to plays, or to the cinema. Father and daughter that passed as a couple. In time, it would become the other way round. Father and daughter passing as mother and son.

He distracted his thoughts before they overcame him. The fight. It was only three hours away.He had to get ready.

--

The champion delivered two astounding jabs in the challenger's chin. The other staggered around the ring, seeking space and balance, the latter of which he found upon grabbing the corner. The referee checked he was fit and let them continue.

Connor reflected about it. No referees guarded his safety in a battle for the Quickening. It was life or death. There were certain rules but none of them mattered at the moment of battle. Once it began in the proper place, it ended only one way: with a beheading.

He felt his head spin. Just like his last time in the Madison Square Garden. He tore at his coat and caressed the hilt of his sword. With determination, he stood up. He knew where he had to go...

--

The garage was crammed with cars. No one had wanted to miss the battle. Connor drew out the Italian sword and began to tread through the aisles. There was someone here. But he could not place where.

"MacLeod."

_Deja vu_, Connor thought. Again an interrupted fight. Again a parking lot. He turned and his face remained rigid as a statue as he acknowledged the other. Again Iman Fasil, who wore a neat dark suit and a white shirt. The same Toledo-Salamanca broadsword shone in his hands. Only this time, there was no tie.

"Fasil." Connor put up his blade.

"Surrender."

"To whom?" Connor blurted. "Tellex and... Sanderson?"

"You're not supposed to know about them. You weren't brought back like us."

"And how were you brought back?" Connor acidly countered. Fasil seemed to realise he had spoken too much. He stiffed his lips and put up the broadsword. "Let me guess, you're not telling me."

Fasil struck ahead. Connor parried the blow. A flurry of chops and lashes followed, with Connor deflecting off everything Fasil masterly threw. Unlike Quince, Fasil seemed to have retained the skills Connor had known.

Suddenly, Connor leapt to a side as his left leg bent and his knee landed on the floor, while his arm streched aside, creating a scythe-like motion with which he slashed the attacking immortal. Fasil gasped. Connor quickly got up and placed the sword on his neck.

"Are you telling me now, Fasil?" Connor hissed.

"You're terminated, Highlander. Just like your clansman."

"What do you mean?!." Connor clenched Fasil's shirt.

"Or what? You'll kill me?" Fasil broke into laughter.

Connor let him go and furiously batted at the neck, carving through it with a single slice. He folded his blade. Had Fasil been involved in Duncan's death? And what did he mean when he said that Connor had not been brought back like them? Them? How many other resurrected immortals were out there?

He felt his chest tighten and his throat choking. And a bolt of lightning caught him unawares. Then another. And another. A blinding light glared upon him. Windows and windshields began to explode and alarms to sound. The sprinklers spat water. He was experiencing it from another resurrected immortal. The Quickening!

It went off and Connor ended up on the floor, feeling the energy flashing explosively over him. He painfully stood up and looked for the nearest exit. His body ached and worse. The water had worsened the electrical shock. Before a riot erupted in the place, he managed to return to his seat in time to seem surprised upon the news of a murder in the garage...


	8. Chapter 8

- VIII -

The antique shop opened again a week later. It was not a busy day. Connor welcomed back the lady he had sold a sword to on the first day. Rebecca Lord (that was her name) was extremely peeved for the delay in the delivery of her purchase. Connor apologised as he could, and offered a 10 refund. She did not seem to be satisfied, but at least she left.

After closing, Connor took a shower and was ready to go out when a knock on the front door drew his attention. It was Amy Thomas. She seemed anxious. He opened and she panted in, breathing with agitation.

"What is it?"

"Joe... he was kidnapped."

"When?"

"We were due to meet at a café an hour ago. I arrived first. He was strolling to the restaurant when suddenly, a black Cadillac stopped by him and a large guy pulled him in."

"Was that guy alone?"

"No. Another one, a black man, was driving."

Connor pondered this new event, joining it to the long chain that began with his mysterious rebirth. He breathed down. Evidently, Tellex and Sanderson, whoever they were, wanted a confrontation with him. But the reason escaped his reasoning.

"Did you notice anything strange within the Watchers lately?"

"No."

"And in your everyday life?"

"No. Why?"

Connor didn't have an answer. He was mouthing the questions to keep her calm, and to give himself time to think. He was not expecting anything. Not from those questions. The lights flickered and faded off. They were covered in darkness.

"Come." He mumbled.

"What is it?"

Connor grasped her hand and pulled her outside. He led her to an alley next to the house, where a large Ford Thunderbird, that had belonged to Duncan MacLeod, was parked. They jumped in and Connor started the engine. He drove to an avenue and hit the gas.

"Connor, what is it?!?"

A whirring nearby halted his response. He glanced at the rear view. Amy turned. A battered black Cadillac drove behind them, zigzagging as if driven by a maniac. The claxon sounded repeatedly, annoyingly.

Connor turned into an avenue and so did the Cadillac. He knew he would not avoid a battle against whoever was in that car. So he had to find a clear space...

"Shit!"

"Don't tell me we're running out of gas."

Connor checked the meter. It was almost empty. "Apart from that." He hissed. "I don't have my sword."

Amy cursed. Connor drove to the nearest open space he remembered. A large park. He sped past trees until he found a place large enough and hidden well from curious eyes. It was a space paved with fallen leaves, circled by bare trees. He parked and waited.

The Cadillac appeared soon. And the two people inside of it left the car. One was a well-dressed blond man of average height. The other was an African man. He had long hair, yet razed at the sides of the head. He had a hairy beard and had at least a dozen studs on his face.

Connor frowned in recognition, feeling something akin to fear creeping upon him. Amy glanced at him and tugged.

"Who are they?" she cried.

"One is hell on earth. I don't know the other."

The blond man produced a Roman _gladius_, while the other one drew out a _katana_.

"Highlander!" the African bellowed.

"Nice to see you, Kane." Connor hissed back.

"Kane..?" Amy stammered, her knees weakening.

"You will not be lucky again, MacLeod."

"This is Connor MacLeod?" The other one snorted bitterly. "Not what I expected."

"And you are...?" Connor taunted.

"Claude Grayson."

Connor was weaponless and against a dreaded warrior he knew, and another of whom he had heard of by Darius, and whose tales were not pleasant. Even if he succeeded in defeating one, there would be another to worry about. Unless...

"So who's taking my head? You, Grayson, or Kane?"

"I will, MacLeod." Kane uttered.

"You had the woman, Kane." Grayson protested.

"The Highlander's mine." Kane grunted, lunging at Grayson.

Suddenly, battle erupted between the two companions. Kane had all the skill Connor remembered. Grayson kept up with him rather well. Evidently, he lived up to what Connor had heard. He wondered who had been good enough to defeat him.

Grayson lashed at Kane's arm. The attack missed by nothing. Kane found his opponent defenceless and stabbed him mercilessly at the side. Grayson gasped as he collapsed, his sword.slipping from his fingers.

"Whatever happens now, Amy, stay in the car. If I don't make it, drive like a thousand devils away from here..."

"There can be... only one!"

Kane took Grayson's head and the Quickening seized him quickly. Connor jumped off the car and rushed forward, clenching the weapon Grayson had lost. Kane's eyes bulged in surprise as lightning hit him. It was against the Rules, Connor knew, but he was in a different Game now.

He sliced at Kane, whose head fell meekly and without resistence. Suddenly, the Quickening posed on him. As he received Kane's power, Grayson's grabbed him too. He gasped, experiencing The Quickening twofold. His heart stopped and started again. His blood evaporated and became liquid again, never leaving the veins. Pain and pleasure as never before overcame him...

As it went off, Connor caught the glimpse of something. A black van had appeared from out of nowhere. A bald man came out of it, knocked Amy down with a blow in the neck and abducted her. It sped away as Connor lost consciousness..


	9. Chapter 9

- IX –

"_The abandoned deposit on the outskirts. At midnight, MacLeod. Or they die."_

The message on the answerphone had been clear. And Connor had no intention of risking the lives of the mortals. The taxi pulled over at the door, and the driver warned him about the danger of walking alone at night in that area. Connor paid and told him to keep the change, and waved as the cabbie left.

He felt a peculiar sensation. An immortal. There was more. Something he was unable to identify. He gulped as he put on his gloves and produced the Italian broadsword that had served him so well since his return.

He tried the door and it was unlocked. He walked in and treaded along piles of wooden boxes, amid almost total obscurity. There was light nearby, and towards there he went.

"Connor MacLeod."

A bald man, with some white hair in his back, his skin marked by age, greeted him wickedly. A pair of dark glasses gave him a creepy appearance, completed with his neat dark outfit. He waved at the Highlander, who didn't move.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Peter Tellex. He's Thomas Sanderson." He pointed at a man that looked almost the same age as Tellex, but with abundant grey hair, and a broad stomach. He was also dressed in black. "And here we close the circle."

"Circle?"

"Yes, MacLeod." Tellex grinned. "You were a collateral effect of an epic experiment. We tried to raise immortals from the dead... and we succeeded."

"How is that?"

"The scientific explanations are lengthy. But to cut it short, we managed to extract the core of immortality."

"The Quickening." Connor barked stiffly.

"Exactly. Once done, we simply isolated the Quickening from the desired individual, and we sent it back to him." Tellex stopped for effect. Connor measured him up. He seemed too sane, which was disturbing. "Of course, we needed a Guinea pig."

He waved at Sanderson, who paced towards a darkened corner and switched the lights of that sector on. A blond boy, no older than 12, was chained to the walls, his body fully exposed, his face evidencing pain and emaciation. He knew that boy.

"Kenneth." Connor uttered.

"Indeed. We captured immortals and beheaded them in front of him, hoping to isolate the resulting Quickening before it entered him. It was long and complicated, but we eventually got a result. Thanks to the Quickener." Tellex waved at a device, similar to a shotgun, which held a strange blinking blue light where the lead should be. Only then Connor noticed a sized artifact, akin to a giant freezer, on the further wall from him, behind Tellex.

"Where does Duncan come in?"

"You see, MacLeod... we want to erradicate your kind. And to that, we would use the strongest killing machine that ever existed. One of your kind. But to that, we needed the Quickening."

"That dwelt in me... until Duncan beheaded me." Connor felt a cold sweat, beginning to realise.

"Very good, Highlander. Your rebirth was... a mistake. And we tried to mend it."

"Alexander Bane... and Kane and Grayson."

"All immortals we brought back under our control. They obeyed us. All of them."

There was something that Connor couldn't fit in the puzzle yet.

"And Quince? He was with you too. But I got no Quickening."

"Slan was a failed return, even more than you are. We tried to use him for a purpose. An erred choice, I'll admit."

Joe and Amy were tied to chairs behind Tellex. Connor noticed them. "Release them! Now!

"Don't worry about them, they'll die now. Sanderson, shoot them."

Sanderson seemed to hesitate. "But, Peter... that was not—"

Tellex produced a revolver and shot his partner in the head. "Every war has its casualties."

Connor stared coldly. "What now, Tellex?"

"Now, MacLeod, you die."

Tellex aimed at Connor's head and fired. Connor leapt left quickly and saved himself. Tellex shot again and this time, the bullet pierced Connor's shoulder and nestled in the bone. Connor squawked in pain as he fell. Tellex approached to deliver the final blow. Knowing he had no choice, The Highlander swiftly reacted and slashed at him. Tellex yelled in horror, and held the deep wound as the gun fell. Connor coldly stared at the Watcher's intestines beginning to protrude. He kicked Tellex in the face and as the other fell backwards, he grabbed the gun and disposed of him.

He went towards Joe and Amy and released them. He told them to leave. They did not ask questions, but Amy's stomach gave upon the bloody sight of Tellex. Once they were gone, he approached the young boy that was chained to the walls.

"Please... Connor..." Kenny mused in a barely audible voice, his face a mask of unmentionable angst.

Connor beheaded him with a lateral slice. He went to the strange, freezer-looking artifact and on his way, snatched the Quickener. He stared at the blue light for a second and then batted at the artifact using the Quickener.

A blinding light irradiated as the Quickener broke. At the same time, the Quickening resulting from Kenny's beheading began. Connor felt himself gripped by energy. He felt stiff and taken. But there was more, he realised. It was extremely powerful!

The blow had made a hole in the freezer-looking device, and sparks flew therefrom, a short circuit that would result in the machine's breakdown. A green light shimmered dazzlingly. Connor figured it contained the results of the beheadings of the immortals. Each quickening, treated by the Watchers to reanimate the corpse they had dwelt in before the decapitation. A strange glimmer engulfed Connor, who began to soar in the air, as green beams surrounded him. He felt different names, different ages, different languages, different races, different creeds... all wanting to reach within him for a place to rest. He screamed and the beams expanded and took distance from him, as if panicked.

The light went off and so did the maelstrom. He landed on the ground and stared at the artifact, now nothing but worthless metal. He had full awareness of the mistake he had made... and knew, just like Tellex and Sanderson had tried with their own, that he had to mend it...

--

Connor locked the door of the antique shop, and threw his bags and sword on the backseat of the Thunderbird. He got on and gave one last glance at the place. At that moment, a black family van appeared. He panicked for a second, but eased when he spotted Joe and Amy climbing off it.

"Leaving, MacLeod?" Joe said amicably.

"Yes." The reply was cold.

"The whole affair remains unknown to the Watchers. So you can stay." Amy added.

"It's not that simple..." Connor mused.

"What do you mean?" Joe questioned.

"It's best if you don't know."

He started the car and left behind the father and daughter he had saved, the ones he knew he could call friends from now on. He recanted the explosion of the Quickener. He had created a disaster of gigantic proportions when he destroyed the device. He had released all those Quickenings, and they had returned to their bodies. Those immortals were reborn and out there somewhere .Some might be confused, and they might need explanations. Others might take the chance to wreak havoc on earth as they had done since time immemorial, and they would have to be stopped.

But all of them would return to the Game, confused and shocked, but determined to continue the fight for their lives, which they would not relinquish again that easily. Balance had been lost, and the consequences – for Connor knew not what or how, but that there would be consequences – might change the existence of mortal and immortal kind alike.

Connor MacLeod turned to a street that led out of Seacouver, with no fixed destination. He knew where he was going though. The Quickening was showing the way.

**END.**


End file.
